


Transactions

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: A re-telling of the episode "Taking the Fifth."
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

The knock comes late. Potter is looking over reports. Or, rather, he is moving his eyes over reports and letting them put him to sleep. Zane Grey would be more entertaining by a long shot (and by a six shooter) but he just wants to drift. He wonders who his late-night caller might be, what crisis has arisen and must be faced in order for the supplicant to sleep. 

“Klinger? What is it, lad?” He imagines that Max has come in his capacity as company clerk, but the boy grins and holds out a bottle. He is wearing a red dress so bright that it must be new. The gold lines in it recall the gold veins in rose petals, invisible unless your nose is buried in them. 

“You know what’s great about clerks, sir?”

“With you as my example, I’d say the earrings.”

Klinger feigns shock and dismay. “Sir! No one dresses up fatigues like me. What’s great about clerks is that we’re schemers right down to the bottom of our boot soles. Colin told me five bottles, sir. But he was so happy about his fruit cocktail that he gave me seven. Two of ‘em made it through.” 

“I don’t remember seeing them in the jeep.” But his eyes laugh. 

“Sir, I’ve hidden way bigger and better things in my skirts than a coupla wine bottles.”

“I thought your deal was with your Major. Why are you bringing this to me?”

Klinger thrills at the word “your,” wishes it was true. “Maxine, sir. You called me Maxine.” 

“Ah. Well, she’s just part of who you are, right?” He nods at the costume. “She does mighty fine work, too.” 

Klinger beams his thanks. “And you wore a Mud Hens hat with me.” 

“They’re a fine team.” 

“You let me be _both_ , sir. It’s… it means a lot. So if wine or cigars or anything good finds its way to me, it’s gonna find its way to you, too.” 

“I have a daughter, you know, Max.”

He nods and Potter sees it for the first time. Even with him, Max is afraid of not measuring up, of being cast aside or kicked to the curb. That wife of his did a number on him, poor lad, and the old Colonel wishes that he had more of Mildred’s softness, though he will try to do the best he can. 

“But I have room for another one,” he says meaningfully, “A son, too.” 

They embrace, the old horse soldier and the pretty Corporal who belongs at the 4077th as he’s belonged nowhere else. “Don’t tell the Major, sir.” 

“Not a word.” 

***

Klinger’s second stop of the night is the Swamp. Charles’ eyes go wide at his dress. “It has been some time since you bothered with petticoats, I believe. What is that expression Pierce is fond of? ‘Hot date?’”

Klinger’s eyes laugh at him; they both know that Charles is not really as far out of touch with the colloquial as he feigns, but it’s part of their friendship now. Charles is the refined one and Max is worldly-wise, and together they can face most anything. 

Now Max has a choice to make. He can be brave and press Charles on the petticoats observation, but he might just get a lecture on the superiority of Winchester eyesight. Supposedly, those pretty eyes (the color he’s always chasing, wishing he could splash in waves that shade - maybe the ocean is like that in New England? He’d ask Hawk if he thought he could live down the wisecracks) can see in the dark. Maxwell would give up (and take off) every petticoat he’s ever turned inside to preserve its shape to find out… and he’d give the man plenty to look at and more to feel. He thinks Charles needs to feel more than he lets himself, thinks he needs touched gently and well and for hours - and not just because it’s his hands (so recently denigrated by the Major as hirsute) that ache to do the touching. If he doesn’t want to be brave - because, usually when he tries, it’s wrapped up in several layers of teasing and play-anger because no one questions that or seems to see through it, even though he hopes, his chest hurting with hoping so hard, that those clever eyes will catch his and _see_ \- he can just reveal the good news, accept the money that means little to Charles and less to him, go to his tent and strip off his finery, and sigh, alone in the dark. It’s a routine he’s perfected. 

But if he can drive through hostile territory with his heart hammering, afraid to be shot out, then he can do this. 

“Maxwell? The last time I saw you go quite this still there were snipers. I find that I do not wish to be included in the extensive and illustrious category of ‘things that bring fear into your face.’”

Klinger translates this into: _I apologize if the date thing upset you_ with maybe a dash of _I hate seeing you scared_ , _Max_. Okay, fine. The last is probably just wishful thinking and a weakness for hearing the Major say his name… even if it’s 100% just in his head. “‘M fine, sir.”

Charles’ brows come together, then lift. “Sir, eh?”

 _Shit shit shit._ They both know he defaults to military generic only when he _isn’t_ fine, preferring playful nicknames conjured on the fly because using them usually draws Charles into acting in kind. Klinger doesn’t understand everything Charles says (though he tries to remember and write down what he can’t define. Colonel Potter helps him correct his spelling on the sly - he passes his new words with stuff to sign - and Klinger looks them up after hours) but he loves to listen and speculate whether or not building so extensive a vocabulary has given Charles a particularly nimble tongue. 

He makes his eyes innocent then. “You don’t want me to be respectful to a superior officer?” 

“That you are _choosing_ to be so does conjure suspicion in me, my dear. Inaugurating a new Section 8 campaign?” 

Charles calls him all sorts of pretty things when he dresses well. Usually, he can stand up to them, even if the only stiff thing beneath his skirts definitely isn’t crinoline. But this time he trembles, knowing “my dear,” might be the best and the last that he gets. He wishes it was “my girl,” wishes he was Charles’ girl… Charles’ _anything_. “I got the wine you wanted.” 

“I understood from the Colonel that your adventure required the sacrifice of the wine to the radiator. Chateau le Jeep is not a flavor I wish to sample.” He smiles at this, considers what notes such a flavor might contain. Axle grease? The blue spark sizzle of combustion? 

“Most of it,” Klinger agrees. “But I saved one.” _I was thinking of you. I’m always thinking of you._

“Shall we go retrieve it then?” 

His spirits fall. Like everyone else in this crummy place, Charles is only excited to see him when he _has_ something. “Sure thing, sir.” 

As they walk, Charles matching his stride, Klinger fantasizes about the taller man offering his arm. Radar used to do it just out of friendship, helping him keep his skirts out of the dust, and Max misses the consideration. He misses anyone being kind to him, really, touching him, and he knows he is about to be terribly reckless. 

“Thirty dollars was our agreed upon price if I recall?” Charles asks once they’re inside and Klinger’s teeth grind. Money is the Major’s preferred pass key, the way he gets what he wants… and Maxwell Klinger just isn’t worth all that much. 

“Put your wallet away, sir.”

Charles gives him a look that Max reads as surprise, but it’s really concern for this continued “sir,” business. Winchester is a student of language; he knows a distancing mechanism when he hears one. Pretty Maxie is, it seems, unhappy about something… and that something may very well be _him_. 

“I don’t want your money. I want… I want a chance.”

“A chance?” the Major echoes. 

He faces him bravely, even though he wants to close his eyes… or maybe even forget the whole thing. “To kiss you.” He lifts his chin, defiant in the face of what he knows will be rejection… and probably not the polite kind. “I’ll even stay away from your mouth if you want. Remember you said that thing about drinking out of my hand?”

Charles’ face alternates between pink and pale; he is a visual representation of Sir John Suckling’s “Fond Lover” poem, though Klinger can’t know it. “I- I do.” 

“Let me do it. I mean, let me kiss your fingers, your hands.” He wants to press his mouth to the center the way bees make for the centers of golden chrysanthemums or pollen-dusted dandelions; he thinks Charles’ hand will be warm under his mouth. “Just for a minute,” he bargains, not caring if it’s kind of pitiful to have to say, “If you hate it, I’ll stop, I swear. I know you don’t think I take orders all that good, but I’ll listen to you, Major.” 

Charles hefts the wine bottle then, says, “I should open this.” 

Klinger swallows back a different sort of vintage - crushed hopes, bitter hurt. “Thought you’d want to enjoy it alone.” Everything feels far away. He just took such a big chance and…. nothing? Not even yelling? They’re just going to ignore the whole thing? 

“I only thought it might make things easier for you.”

He doesn’t recognize the emotions in the man’s voice, but he thinks that something is very wrong. _I broke something?_ he thinks, confused. _Just because I want to kiss you? You can’t forgive me something that little?_ “Major?” 

“You would have me labor things with words?”

“You’re good at words. I, uh, I like your voice.” He looks down to say it, but when he looks up Charles is, at least from what he can make out, _in pain._ He wants to say sorry, but he’s not sure what for. He’s not sorry that he loves the man and he won’t say so even for Charles’ sake. 

“I am not attractive,” Charles says then. These are not necessarily what Max thinks of as “Winchester words,” stuff he has to look up, but they don’t make sense. And Charles just keeps going like they do. “Not prepossessing, which you so very much deserve. I should refuse your generosity. I do not know how you uncovered my feelings, but that you would seek to comfort me surprises me not at all, given your character, your _heart_ . Such kindness will see me through the war, I think.” _And after._ “In other words, Maxwell, you may kiss quite any part of me you wish - I certainly am not strong enough to say you no... but I will likely shed tears over you when you stand to leave. I think it only proper that I should tell you that.” 

Max wants to frame the man’s beautiful face (the Major is _wrong_ about that), but Charles can’t take it. Charles may have a genius level IQ, but Klinger is emotionally intuitive; the man before him is _fragile_. 

He shifts into a voice Charles has heard in Post Op, but never directed at him. _Easy, easy,_ hums under the words. “I think there’s been some kind of mix up, Major.” _Gently._ “I didn’t find out anything about you.” _‘Til now._ “This is all me. I-I miss you, Major.” 

“ _What_?” 

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I do. Even when you’re right in front of me. It hurts.” 

In a gesture that is graceless and eager, Charles extends his right hand. He hurts, too, Klinger knows from something in his face. “Make it stop?” 

One little nod. His eyes close. He smiles. 

He smiles right against Charles’ skin. 

Then he kisses manicured nails, up long fingers, tongue flicking against the webbing between them. His lips bless every knuckle. By the time he’s on the blue veins under the thin skin of his wrist (appropriate for the blue blood running through them), Charles’ knees are shaking. 

Klinger glances at his face. _Still fragile_ . _Alright. Slow and steady, Major baby._

Klinger doesn’t try to get the proud Major on his knees (though the image nearly makes him moan) - he just goes there himself. It’s a good look and he knows it, knows the associations, and smiles up at the Major prettily under his lashes (he doesn’t know how lost Charles gets in his eyes) because Charles has got to know them too. And he’s not pulling his hand away. 

Max would like to have both hands to worship, but he doesn’t waste what he’s been given. His eyes go hooded as he licks and sucks at fingers he’s watched in OR and at the mess. He bobs his head, taking those long, sensitive digits as deep as he can. He wants those fingers on his hips, looped around his waist, lifting him up - _sweeping_ him up (he’s got the princess dresses; he deserves the fairy tale); he wants tattoos of Winchester’s fingertips on the small of his back. He conveys this as best he can with a silent - but very active - tongue. 

Winchester kneels… but it’s a little like _falling_ \- and Max _really_ likes the way it looks. They end up on their 

knees, facing each other. Max finally gets both hands, worshipping the new one (as planned) without neglecting the now-tingling right. The Major’s knees bump his a few times before Max gets it, realizes that his _knees_ aren’t shifting on the tent floor - his _hips_ are. 

He’s done gentle. He tries for bold. “I could get you off like this.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees. His smile is soft and a little sad. “I suppose you find me very pathetic, beloved.” 

“Nope. Just alone too long. But we’re gonna fix it, Major baby, you and me.”

Charles likes that. A lot. His pupils are blown. The blue has changed, makes Maxwell think of blue ribbons. Charles is, as far as he’s concerned, all of the prizes. 

“Pet…”

“Blow out that lantern, would ya? Great. Now, hold tight.” He doesn’t let go of Winchester’s hand to grab 

enough covers to make a nest. Charles is too tall for his cot. 

He is also impressed. “You are… good at this.”

“I’ve wanted the chance to take care of you since you got here. Lay down, huh?” Then he strokes his face, his jaw. “You gotta stop looking so scared, beautiful. You’re killing me.” 

Charles flinches. “I, ah, I apologize.” 

“Not to me. You feel whatever you need to feel. You don’t have to say sorry. Your pace. We can stop right here.” He winks. “You’ve more than bought that wine.” 

“It will not, dear girl, that is… there has never been a vintage as sweet as the feel of your mouth on my fingers… Forgive me, Maxwell. I am… I am unskilled at this.”

“You’re doing just fine. I, uh, I never get tired of it, you know. All the different…” he stalls out because it’s not “selves” precisely, but he doesn’t have the words. “The stuff you call me.” He speaks the words right into the Major’s wrist; his breath flutters something in his pulse that Charles feels all the way down to his feet. 

“They are… it is merely how I see you. _All_ of the ways that I see you. You are beautiful in each role.” He squeezes his hand. 

“Call me yours.” 

“Max?”

It is his turn to flush. Charles has never seen it and thinks the color is less red than eustoma; he will buy Klinger a gown in that color… something with gold accents that Max does not have to sew but will enjoy accessorizing. With golden pearls, he decides. 

“Sometimes… sometimes you say ‘my,’ first,” he explains. “‘My dear girl,’” the words choke him a little. 

Charles warms to this. _This_ he can do. “My Corporal?” he offers and his voice is lower than Klinger remembers… sensation as much as sound. “My darling?” 

Klinger doesn’t try to censor the wanting sound that rises up to break against his lips. _Keep me_ . His heart beats with it, begging. _Keep me. Hold me. Keep me._

_Hold onto me. Don’t ever let me go._

Charles lifts his chin so that he can look into his eyes. “Trade me, my girl?” 

His internal entreaty cuts out. _Fuck_ . “Anything you want.” _Everything you want._

“Say my name.” 

Klinger can’t help it. “It’s a long name, Major baby.”

“I do like that,” he agrees. He knows, though he can’t explain how, that Klinger has been tacking that “baby” bit on soundlessly in his needier moments. “But, please?” 

“Yes, Charles.” 

Their mouths meet then and Klinger almost breaks the kiss to berate the man for how much of an idiot he can be - thinking he would need wine to get through _this_!?! 

“That is a most exquisite sound, beloved.” He un-crimps clutching fingers from his shoulder. “I did not realize that you were capable.” 

Klinger likes the new confidence in his voice. It’s merited, given the way the man kisses, but he has a few tricks up his sleeves and up his slips. He kisses down the Major’s neck - uncharted but swiftly surrendered territory - then poises over him. 

“You know, I’ve bargained for a lotta passes. To Seoul. Tokyo. You’re the prettiest blank pass I’ve ever seen. I’d give up a signed section eight for this and not even miss it.” His hands begin to unbutton his over-shirt. 

“Flatterer.”

“Not yet.” He untucks his shirt to reach beneath and feels a pang of pity when Charles starts at his touch, then leans into it. “That’s it, baby,” he praises, before exploring the planes of his chest, nuzzling into his belly as if Charles is a cat resting on its lazing back, making the other man squirm. 

“You cannot _want_ to do that.” 

“Shut up, Charles.” 

“I thought you enjoyed listening to my voice.” 

“ ‘A’s’ especially,” Klinger agrees, “but not you insulting yourself, stupid.” 

“It is acceptable when _you_ do it?”

“When you’re being stupid, it’s fine.” He returns to his work, tongue flicking out in generous little motions that are physical representations of the words of praise he doesn’t want to spare his tongue to speak. 

Charles hates the softness of his stomach, hates that he lacks Pierce’s movie star smile. But Klinger laps and sucks and tastes the skin he reveals like Charles is a butterscotch custard with warm, brown vanilla sauce; he makes happy noises that Charles would describe as kittenish if the part of his brain that processes words was still online. 

He tries to cover these vulnerable parts of himself, these soft places he likes to ignore, but Klinger bats his hands away and informs him that he’s welcome to put his fingers in his hair or just about anywhere else, but he’s not allowed to get in his way. “Unless you don’t like it, Major. Then you can tell me to stop or try something else.”

“Major?”

“Charles.” He tries to turn it into a purr and bends as he says it, lowering the man’s zipper. 

“Maaaaax...”

There are those “A’s” he’s so fond of. “I’ve never tried this,” he admits, and his hands are like silk passed through flame. “But the nurses say their fellas love it.” 

Charles says a lot of things in the next moments. None of the words are, “stop.” Klinger would tell the man his underwear are boring (he’ll add little lacey touches later) but his mouth is happily, busily full. And wonder of wonders, Charles enjoys him enough - _relaxs_ enough - to joke with him in the afterglow. He traces Max’s lips, swollen with his work, then tips his chin to adore his dark eyes. “That _wasn’t_ what you meant, beloved,” so soon, though Max couldn’t know it, to be dearly beloved, “when you called me great girthed one?”

Max makes a wrecked and wonderful sound. 

End!

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye's old dating routines aren't working for him, so Charles and Max co-opt them.

“How’d you get the keys, Major?” Klinger asks, arm at his waist. There is no one, Charles has decided, as touchable, or who touches as readily, as Max. He pulls the younger man in tight against him, sparing a blessing for the wine bottle that saw them to this place. “I told Rizzo I had an assignation.” His chuckle is low and vibrates through Max. “I am fairly certain that he thinks I mean to kill a General in order to get reassigned to Tokyo, but no matter.” 

Klinger goes cold all over at that and stops. “You, uh… you still want to get back there, huh?” 

Charles hides a smile by looking away. Maxwell, he is learning, is, though a schemer at heart, without guile; he hides nothing of how badly he needs Charles, how good the man makes him feel. Sometimes the buttoned up surgeon is almost embarrassed for him, the way he gives everything he is away. On the other hand, he isn’t sure how he could live without it, now, the naked need in those eyes as they look up at him, begging him to finish what he begins as often as a private spot can be secured. Max loves to come for him - and not because of how good it feels, because it is  _ Charles  _ motivating the feelings and the devastating effects. He knows that more than anything, maybe more than a section eight, Klinger wants to find a way to stay at his side. And scandalous though it might be (at least to established Boston Society) to have fallen in love with a younger man who spends fully half of his time in drag, Charles fully intends to keep him there by every means he can contrive - ceremonial, extralegal, and by just plain pleading if necessary. 

“Only if I can take you.” 

They are inside the jeep now. It is driving the man crazy but, as of late, Max and Charles have been taking pages from the Hawkeye Pierce M*A*S*H dating manual. While Pierce has been turned down by nurses bored with his technique, the newly joined pair is delighted with the novelty of things they’ve never gotten to enjoy. More than once, Pierce has asked, not quite joking, to join them. 

Tonight they are pretending to attend a drive-in movie. This has two layers of charm for Max. For one, he gets to be the one taken out - door opened and all that - a role he definitely couldn’t play back in Toledo with Laverne, even though he’d floated the idea once or twice, only to have her look down her nose and despair before ruffling his hair, saying, “Oh, Maxie! What  _ am _ I going to do with you?” The answer, Max thinks ruefully, was, apparently, run around on you and divorce you… but he doesn’t hold a grudge. No one can say he didn’t trade up - way, way up. (He tells no one, not even the Major, but Charles’ height, his huge hands, they’re unexpected turn ons. How did he get so lucky?) 

For two, Charles will narrate the feature they aren’t seeing, making up a story calculated to allow Max to hide his face in his neck in faux fear or crafted to get him hot. He’s a good storyteller and he includes the stuff Max cares about, like costumes; his time with Honoria has given the Major a surprising adroitness in this arena. He also has a voice that Max has been in love with since the first time he opened his mouth (unpleasant as Charles was in their initial exchanges). Usually, Charles uses this surprise, sonic superpower for good, reading to him in bed, helping him with his clerking duties. But sometimes he says secret, sinful things into the shells of his pretty ears, words merging into the feel of his tongue tracing the edge, and Max just  _ melts _ for him. He’s working on expanding the Major’s vocabulary, too, leavening all that fancy stuff with a few, choice, low class words that, if he ever gets Charles to say them, will probably wreck him on the spot. 

“My dear, your eyes are sparkling in a way that both alarms and intrigues me and I do not recall you receiving new eye shadow in the mail.” 

Max throws his head back in a laugh, the gesture threatening his carefully created curls. A lover who notices such things (new stockings, new embroidery to dress up an old favorite skirt) is a daily joy. “Thinking about how you talk, baby,” he admits, resting a hand on his thigh in a possessive way that still feels bold. “The great stuff you say to me.”  _ In me. Above me. Under me _ . 

This talk leads Charles to trace his lips (vanilla glaze lip gloss giving them a satin shine), to dip inside with teasing fingers to pet his tongue. He does this, they both know, to conjure the memory of the first time he thrust his long fingers into Maxwell’s mouth, ordering him to get them nice and wet. He’d barely been able to, Max remembers, because it’s hard to curl your tongue around someone’s fingers and moan at the same time. When he wins his mouth back, Max is panting, and he almost chases after the fingers Charles has withdrawn, until he sees the Major’s free hand go to his zipper. 

“Getting me ready already, Major baby? This must be a bad movie.” 

Charles laughs at the smug delight in his voice. “I actually, ah, intended to ready, ah, myself, ah, for you. If you like.” 

The number of “ah’s” in his reply tells Klinger that Charles is nervous and excited about this and he hurries to shore him up. “Oh, baby… you sure? You don’t have to.”

“You should see your eyes.” 

Max blushes. “I don’t wanna pressure you, though.” 

“I am offering.” He had been thinking about it all day, in fact.

“Then lemme help.” 

The actions he undertakes have Charles writhing on the uncomfortable seat. They always bring blankets on these adventures (Charles seems to think that the difference in their sizes means that Klinger is always cold), so Klinger bundles the soft fabric under Charles’ hips. He wins an impatient sound for his efforts and hurries back to what he was doing - and keeps at it until Charles begs him to fuck him. 

Klinger smiles against his thigh, touches him  _ just right _ to reward him for this foray into the vulgar. “What was that, Charles?” 

Those eyes - their ever-changing pigment ever-fascinating to Max - snap open and, through panting breaths, Charles manages a grin. “Are you quite sure you can endure it, Maxwell? Me begging you to take me? To  _ fill _ me?” 

Max pants for him, now. “That’s real good, Major baby, but that’s not what you asked for before.”  _ C’mon, Charles. Be brave for me _ . In an attempt at rather coarse inspiration, he thrusts his fingers nice and deep. “Tell me what you want, Charles.” 

“ _ You _ , Corporal darling. Inside of me.” 

He hurries then and his hands tremble and it's so difficult to restrain himself and go slow (he doesn’t want it to hurt), and Charles moves and shifts and twists under him, begging with his whole body, going stock-still when he hits his mark. And then they’re so in sync that the moan that begins in Klinger’s throat ends on Charles’ lips. Their hearts pound together, sharing tiny slivers of rests, and Klinger uses his body to push for his lover’s peak even as Charles calls for him to let go. Condensation slides down the insides of the windows. 

Klinger moans into the nape of Charles’ neck. He knows that the courteous thing to do is move and help Charles to clean up and then find his mouth and worship it the way he wasn’t able to for the last few minutes. But his knees and elbows won’t hold him up. “I knew this before, Major baby, but I don’t know if I tell you enough. You’re  _ really smart _ .”

Charles laughs and takes pity on him, takes over the aftermath to bundle him in blankets, then into his lap. “I was happily dazed, but am I correct in my belief that we, ah, despite our rather, ah, short, physical association…?” 

He tilts his face up, head tipped back on Charles’ shoulder. “Yeah, Major. We’re a hell of a team.” 

Charles smiles down into his dark eyes. “My good, good girl,” he murmurs, claiming his mouth. 

It turns out that the movie is, happily, a double feature. The popcorn rests, forgotten, in a bag on the floor. 

End! 

  
  
  
  



End file.
